Epilogue
London had its excitements, but there was something truly magical about sitting in the sunshine and inhaling fresh country air next to a stream so clear you could see every rock and darting fish.
Especially when such adventures included one’s handsome, dashing husband and three adorable children.
Well, mostly adorable. Five-year-old Joel Tansley, Earl of Keswick and known as Kessy, was adorable when he wasn’t leaving tin soldiers in doorway battlefields for others to trip over.
His younger brother, three-year-old Lord Beau Tansley, was adorable when he wasn’t decorating the furniture with sticky marzipan or muddy handprints.
And the newest member of their family, two-month-old Lady Charlotte Tansley, was adorable when not casting up her accounts down the front of her mama’s dressing gown.
But today…today was perfect.
Frances moved her parasol aside and allowed some warmth onto her face.
A few freckles on her nose was a small price to pay for such bliss.
Not even the house party that had transformed her and Dalton’s marriage from cool duty arrangement to passionate love match could compare to the past five years, for her husband now had another extremely attractive character trait.
Of course he remained a skilled master who pleasured her ruthlessly and a tender lover who held her close in bed and massaged her neck when it ached.
However, he’d added attentive father; one who played with his sons and read them stories, but was also his daughter’s favorite shoulder to nap on.
For a man who had never known parental affection and had been so uncertain about his potential as a loving father, Dalton was a remarkably fast learner.
Never again would a future Duke of Dashford grow up in a household that placed cold superiority, harsh judgement and transactional duty above all else.
“Frances! Look at Kessy’s fish! Big enough to feed the entire village,” called Dalton from where he stood perched on a large flat rock beside his heir.
She balanced her parasol stick on one shoulder and applauded enthusiastically at the hand-sized fish being held up by her beaming son. “Well done, darling! The biggest yet.”
Dalton grinned wickedly as he gestured to his empty fishing hook. “We’ve also sent our chief worm collector, Captain Beau, for more supplies. Perhaps you could approve his selection?”
Frances poked out her tongue, but moments later two particularly ugly specimens appeared three inches from her face. UGH. Juliette had warned her that being the mother
of boys resulted in frequent close encounters with slimy, squelchy things, but surely not to this degree.
Worms. Frogs. Bugs. Mud. Her sons loved the two-month jaunt to Dashford Park each year in July and August; the ponies to ride, ponds and paddocks and woods to explore, twig sailboats to construct, and a very indulgent Cook who was forever making sweets and ices.
It was no exaggeration to say the boys had to be forcibly hauled inside on summer nights, and when the Kyles, Jarrows, and Warennes all brought their children to visit, it was nothing short of Bedlam.
“These ones, Mama?” said Beau, as he dangled the worms even closer. “See how fat they are!”
“They are very fat. I’m sure they will help Papa and Kessy catch the best fish.”
“Yes!” said Beau happily. “Can I show Lottie? Is she sleeping? She’s always sleeping.”
Frances glanced over at Charlotte, who was napping in the truly ingenious beaten leather basket-bed that the local tanner had presented to them years ago as a christening gift for Kessy, the long-awaited heir who arrived almost exactly nine months after that magical night in Kent.
It was robust enough to be carried from the manor down to the stream and the small canopy offered protection from the sun and wind, so the whole family could enjoy outings together.
In saying that, it was probably just as well that Charlotte was asleep under her favorite light blanket; fat worms in her face might provoke a squawk heard in every surrounding county.
“Babies do sleep a lot. You liked to nap when you were a baby, too. But you’d better hurry, Papa and Kessy are waiting for the new worms.”
Beau nodded. “Bye!” he said, before ambling away on his sturdy toddler legs toward his father and older brother while trying not to trip over the hem of his linen smock. It wouldn’t be too long before he joined Kessy in being breeched; time passed shockingly fast with children.
Over beside the stream, Dalton was examining Kessy’s catch with him, but he turned and ruffled Beau’s hair when the little boy approached, worms at the ready.
Frances smiled at the sight. That was the key to fatherhood Dalton had discovered; no study at Cambridge or Oxford was required—their children merely needed a papa who spent time with them, taught them skills in the guise of play, and who never shied away from bestowing a hug or warm praise.
Hmmm. Praise. Yes, Dalton was an attentive father and tender husband, but it had been far too long since he’d been her stern yet generous master.
Her husband was always so solicitous when she was ill and considerate after she’d been brought to childbed, assuring her that his hand was most adequate until she was ready.
And now, she was ready. Eager to be tied up and blindfolded and fucked until she screamed herself hoarse.
Preferably with a toy in her backside as well.
A phallus by itself was delicious enough, but with both that and Dalton’s cock…
“Why, Your Grace, dare I ask what you might be thinking about?”
Frances almost leaped a foot in the air.
How long had she been daydreaming? The boys were now gleefully building mud castles in a patch away from the stream, and Dalton was crouched next to Charlotte’s basket, adjusting the blanket their daughter had kicked off in her sleep.
From the glint in his eyes, he’d been studying her for a while.
“Oh, this and that,” Frances said airily, batting her lashes. “Early bedtime and toys, mainly.”
He stilled. “Toys, you say?”
“Yes. I miss my jade friends desperately. I insist we meet again. Tonight.”
Dalton leaned forward and cupped her neck, then captured her lips in a very demanding, mind-splintering kiss.
“Oh, you insist, do you?” he eventually whispered in her ear. “I think you know what happens when minxes make demands.”
“I do,” Frances replied coyly. “I also insist we attend the Warennes’ house party in December since I was too ill last year. A certain red wig needs to be liberated from its hatbox. We could be two wicked strangers seeking shelter from a storm, trapped together in the minstrel’s gallery…”
“Christ, I love you so much,” Dalton groaned, his next kiss even more ruthlessly punishing.
“Ewww!” bellowed Beau from the mud patch. “Kissing!”
“Mama and Papa are always kissing,” said Kessy, in the kind of long-suffering, dramatic tone that surely belonged on stage.
Dalton laughed. “One day, my boys, perhaps you won’t think kissing is so bad. But I wager, Kessy, that me and Beau can make a much higher mud castle than you and Mama…”
Frances checked Charlotte once more, then set down her parasol and shook out the faded, brown-striped calico gown so eminently suitable for outdoor family adventures. “Ha! We shall defeat you so soundly, you’ll wail for weeks.”
As her husband helped her stand, they shared a glance that said so much more than words. Laughter. Challenge. Anticipation for later. But best of all, unending love.
For that was the life dreams were made of.
* * *